What the Persian Never Heard
by Shealteal
Summary: I always thought that Erik probably didn't tell the whole story of his last meeting with Christine to the daroga. Why should he? I wouldn't have. Based on Leroux with perhaps a few very minor artistic liberties taken. Sweet,but hopefully never just fluff.


A/N This little piece was loosely meant to follow the last chapter of Leroux's story, just before the epilogue. It starts out from the point of view of Leroux himself, like most of the book does. I really wrote it more as an exercise than anything else, so if you folks would be so kind as to criticize it constructively, it would make me very happy and help me improve. ;) Thanks. You guys are awesome.

Oh, and all of the characters and the main idea of the Phantom of the Opera story do not belong to me and are hereby disclaimed by myself.

What the Persian Never Heard

The account of Erik's final visit provided for us by the daroga is by no means to be suspected of discrepancy as far as it occurred to him; however, what man, especially one such as Erik, whose sentiments ran thick and deep as heart's blood, bares the extent of his passions to his fellows? Who dares uncover the innermost secrets of his heart to be seen by the eyes of mortal men? Such thoughts are sacred and the memories surrounding them are often never to be discovered by the denizens of earth. It was not astonishing to me then, when I found an article of evidence during my research that suggests reticence on Erik's part in relating the scene of his last moments with Christine to his Persian friend. This evidence comes in the form of a manuscript found hidden away in an administrative abstract from the opera house that relates to the time with which we are concerned. It is not known who wrote it, as the handwriting matches that of neither Christine nor Erik, and the narrative is not written in the first person. It is acknowledged by those who were acquainted with Erik that he could disguise his handwriting to avoid detection by that means, and he may have felt a sense of anonymity by writing in this way; nevertheless, the probability of his authorship must be judged by the reader. The text of the manuscript is as follows:

He found her waiting for him in the house by the lake when he returned from the Communist's dungeon. Her brow was still streaked with blood and her cheek still streaked with tears. He hated those tears, because he knew he was partly the cause of them. If only that silly boy had not come after her; he knew she would not have been so hesitant to accept him. He would not have been forced to his rash stratagems to maintain his hold on her, and the frenzy of grief and despair which resulted in the cut on her forehead would never have been inspired.

He approached her slowly, looking humbly into her eyes. He found sadness reflected there, but not the dullness of despair that he had expected. She met his gaze bravely.

"You truly consent to be my wife then, Christine?" he asked quietly.

"Yes, Erik," was the grave reply.

Her composure pained him. It was yet another proof that she did not reciprocate the zealous love for her which burned painfully in his heart. He believed her, though; he sensed her sincerity.

"But you do not love me?" he asked this time miserably, knowing the answer well enough.

"No."

She looked away sadly. This was the nut he had been unable to crack. In spite of all he tried, all he could do, nothing moved her heart to love him, and he knew it bitterly. He thought he could win her through music—the nights that they filled with the sweetest harmonies. Their last few lessons together had been touched with a sublime energy that had left both of them overwrought and breathless each time. Lately when they sang together, he felt that she was beginning to look at him with something more than friendly regard, but she had shown him how mistaken his impressions were. He had fooled himself, he knew. She had only pretended to accept him out of fear. His face still frightened her, and it frustrated him deeply.

"Perhaps, my dear, I have not been the only one guilty of intrigue in this affair," he growled, his eyes flashing dangerously, "Perhaps you do not find my appearance as innocuous as you led me to believe."

He said it almost as a question, and awaited her answer with a bitter gaze.

Christine said nothing, but looking mournfully up into his burning eyes, she slowly removed his mask. He flinched, but she let it fall, and with the most excruciating tenderness, gently caressed his misshapen cheek and wiped away his now fast-falling tears with her soft hands. His anger evaporated, and he was overwhelmed.

"_Darling!_" he moaned. And he fell to his knees before her and reverently kissed her feet.

Weeping softly, she bent, kindly offered him her hand (which was showered with kisses), and graciously raised him.

"I love you," he sighed as he stood again before her, her hand still confined in his, "_desperately_! And though you would refuse me your heart for the rest of your life, I would love you still! I _will_ love you still."

His thoughts held him in agonies as he released her petulantly. As he gazed at the flames in the hearth beside them, they echoed the tumult in his mind. She was so _beautiful,_ so kind and gentle, and so innocent and pure; he felt that there was not one so perfectly good alive on the earth, and he had stolen her. He had torn her away from the one that she loved, and carried her off to this realm of darkness and misery—this cursed place where souls seemed to canker and die. His crime tormented him and his unworthiness to love her pained him near to death.

Presently, he felt a hand on his shoulder, and turning, found her peering at him with concern.

"Oh, Christine!" he exclaimed, taking her hand into his again, "How can you suffer to be with me, beast that I am? How can you stand there so calmly, when a soul (a demon!) consigned to the Fiery Pit moans in anguish before you?"

"You can be forgiven and redeemed from that doom," she replied quietly.

"Will I ever be able to gain _your_ forgiveness?" he pleaded.

She touched his cheek again, her eyes sparkling with the same energy he saw when she sang, and she spoke.

"Erik, you are the unhappiest man ever to draw breath! I swear to you that I will be your wife if you ask it of me, and I will show you that you are not left desolate. You will never be alone while I live, and… I will ask God… to help me to love you… the way you love me!" she could scarcely finish speaking for her sobs.

Brave girl! Well-spring of sacrifice! In her weakness, she sought a support in his outstretched arm, and he found it difficult to breathe through his tears as he felt her beautiful head come to rest on his shoulder. He had never known a woman that would dare seek his touch, nor so completely ignore his gruesome visage as to come so near to him. And his mask lay forgotten on the floor! She saw his ugliness; she knew better than anyone all his hideous sins! This girl—this _angel_—knew all his dark secrets and yet still pitied him, and still treated him with the divine spark of compassion. Oh, she was so lovely and good! He knew suddenly that he could not possibly force her to marry him. Though he would surely die from the severance, she must live free. He deserved her no more than he had deserved his wretched face.

"No, Christine," he cried in a wretched tone, and held her away at arm's length, "No. It cannot be this way. I will not be the source of your unhappiness. I am a monster! I will never be worthy of your love, and you must never give your heart to me, broken and bleeding, because it was torn from what you truly and naturally adore! Go, find your lover and leave this evil place. I release you from your promise."

They looked into each other's eyes for a moment, and Christine brushed the salt drops from her lashes.

"Truly, Erik?"

"Yes, dear one. I will never trouble you again."

"But what will happen to you if I go?" she asked apprehensively.

"I cannot live without your love, dearest, but having it would simply have postponed what would have come soon enough anyway. I am old before my time. Trouble has aged me, and I have not much longer to live."

She saw the truth of this. Though he was not yet beyond middle age, his hair was streaked with white, there were deep lines on his marred face, and his flesh was gaunt and tinged with gray.

"Erik," she addressed him softly, "thank you for all you have given me. May God grant you peace."

She raised herself up on the tips of her toes, laid a sweet, lingering kiss on his forehead, and embraced him.

"Christine, have mercy!" came his short, ragged breath, "I beg of you. I am dying of love for you already, and you would give me another wound, greater than the first. Are you not content with my heart's slow weeping of every drop of its blood for you, and you would prefer the offering of a flood? Go and be happy, love."

She obediently turned to go.

"Christine," he called after her before he could stop himself. "Christine, before you leave, before you go…might I…You see, you are so dear to me, and I have never…I want to show you…" he found it difficult to frame his request, but she stayed and listened patiently, "Might I…may I kiss you?"

For an interminable moment they both stood in silence. With no response from her, his countenance fell, and he began to wish he had never spoken. But slowly she moved toward him again, and he gaped at her in surprise. She drew very near to him, and modestly waited for him to take the boon she had granted.

Was she not the most adorable creature who ever lived? He stood there for a moment, his eyes shining as he looked at her, his breathing deep and fast, and his heart near to bursting. He could scarcely believe what he saw. He thought he would never be able to kiss her; he thought she would run away, or scream, or perhaps just faint away and die—but no, she stayed—she stayed, and she looked at him with her eyes shining also as he gently gathered her into his arms. She did not make a sound as he tenderly kissed her forehead, her cheek, and as he softly sealed his lips over hers, the warmth of her form in his arms told him that she stayed very much alive. As he held her fast, not wanting to part from her, their tears mingled together, and ran down their faces and between their lips. In the salt of those tears, Erik had never tasted anything so sweet.

He released her sooner than he wanted, remembering that she was not his to hold. She made as if to leave again, but looked back before opening the door.

"Goodbye, Erik. Farewell!"

She took the ring she had lost and which he had found again from her finger and handed it to him.

"Keep it," he said, "keep it, and think sometimes of your poor Erik and how deeply he loved you."

She turned, and with a glance and a single tear, she was gone.


End file.
